LXXXIX.

“For my sick soul is darken’d unto death, With shadows from the suffering it hath seen; The strong foundations of mine ancient faith Sink from beneath me--whereon shall I lean? Oh! if from thy pure lips was wrung the sigh Of the dust’s anguish! if like man to die-- And earth round _him_ shuts heavily--hath been Even to _Thee_ bitter, aid me! guide me! turn My wild and wandering thoughts back from their starless bourne!”